


I Ended Up Losing You

by Anonymous



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Heavy Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “How dare you? How dare you!”It is nothing but pure rage, all of his emotions burning through the air, no longer held back by his calm façade. Nothing could possibly make him be nice in this moment, months of anguish and torment tearing through his old friend’s skin, sticking to his face like spit made from fire, and he can’t run away from the ambush.-----Geralt shows up at Jaskier's coastal home months after their fight, needing his help, and it puts them through the entire spectrum of feelings in one of the worst ways imaginable.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 152
Collections: Anonymous





	I Ended Up Losing You

**Author's Note:**

> I really done made myself cry with this fic, and I would like to apologise in advance. I'm sorry.

“How _dare_ you? How dare you!”

It is nothing but pure rage, all of his emotions burning through the air, no longer held back by his calm façade. Nothing could possibly make him be nice in this moment, months of anguish and torment tearing through his old friend’s skin, sticking to his face like spit made from fire, and he can’t run away from the ambush.

“Jaskier–”

“No,” seethes the bard, anger putting a shield between the two of them. “You don’t get to do this, Geralt. You don’t get to show up in the home I’ve built _on my own_ and beg for _my_ help because you’ve only _now_ realised that you _apparently_ need me. You can fuck right off to whatever cave you’ve crawled out of, because _I_ don’t need _you_.”

A wince can be caught on the Witcher’s face, but Jaskier’s emotions are clouding his eyes, and he doesn’t notice how deeply his words truly cut, past skin and muscle and bone. He turns his back on the man he used to feel so close to, heading out of his home and out into the forest behind it, going to chop the firewood he was supposed to chop before Geralt showed up hoping for something that was never going to happen.

“You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t your help I needed specifically.”

Geralt stops, realising exactly what he’s said and how he’s said it, and it certainly doesn’t sound the same as it did in his head. “Oh, I know all too well that you wouldn’t be here for any reason other than exploiting me. Well, I’m not going to get drawn in and sing your precious monster to sleep just because you want something.”

Jaskier brings his axe down onto the wood, tired of talking. He’s going to ignore the problem because he knows it can go away on its own, but more so because he knows that if the conversation continues, he’ll say things he won’t be able to take back, and though he’s been put through some incredible pain, to subject another soul to it would not be something he would ever do, no matter how much his heart is hurting.

“You know that’s not what I meant. You’re my _friend,_ Jaskier.”

Swing. “I was never–” swing “–your friend.” Swing. “I was a tool.” Swing. “I’m only sorry I didn’t realise–” swing “–just how much you were using me earlier.” Swing. “Maybe then–”

But instead of talking on, he exclaims, a piercing shriek ringing through the air. Having mistimed his movements, distracted by his verbal attack, and the axe has ended up in his calf, definitely not in the place it was supposed to be.

“Motherfucking shit! Goddamn fuck! Shit, shit, shit!” screams Jaskier.

“Whatever you do, don’t pull it out,” says Geralt, running towards the bard. Of course, he doesn’t listen, and the axe is out before he can get to the bloody scene in time. “Damn it, Jaskier, the least you could do is listen to me.”

He picks up the bard in his arms, and though he squirms, wanting out, he doesn’t release him, carrying him back towards the house bridal-style. He lays him down on the table, searching for anything to treat the wound with, eventually finding some vials and bandages under the sink after nearly tearing apart the whole room.

“This is going to hurt.” Geralt doesn’t bother lying to Jaskier, just pulls down his trousers and starts cleaning the wound, trying not to listen to his shouts and screams, knowing this must be hurting him immensely. He doesn’t want to put him in this much agony, but he also doesn’t want him to die, and, unfortunately, those two things can’t coexist.

Jaskier grabs Geralt’s arm as he finishes up with the bandages and says, “I know the near future doesn’t look particularly promising, but I’m too young to die, so you needn’t worry.”

No answer from his old friend, just a solemn and grave look as he cleans up the last of the blood. He takes a breath. “I’m sorry I let you leave, Jaskier. I said things I shouldn’t have, and I ended up losing you. I thought of you as a friend, my only friend, despite how I might have come across.”

“You had so much time, Geralt,” whispers Jaskier, chest heavy and mind light from blood loss. “Apologies only work when you say them without wanting something in return. I know Witchers supposedly don’t feel anything, but I also know you, and you feel much more than you think you so.”

His blue-green eyes are slowly hidden by his eyelids, barely any emotion coming across them anymore. Geralt would say something, but the bard would not remember any words that came his way, so, once he falls asleep completely, he carries him to the bedroom, lays him down carefully, covering him so he doesn’t freeze. Despite his internal instincts, he places the softest kiss on his forehead before leaving him to rest, hoping he doesn’t have to call Yenn for her help, especially since she told him not to come anywhere near Jaskier considering it would do more damage than good.

He knows what he did wrong all those months ago, and he can’t take it back, no matter how badly he wants to. He knew that coming here only to ask for help instead of just forgiveness was a risky move, and it is one he regrets making. To see that Jaskier was able to move on without an apology stings, but he understands that the bard couldn’t sit around waiting forever for something might never have happened.

He’s built something for himself, something that came out of anger and resentment, but also out of hope for a life where he needn’t rely on someone else to make him happy. That’s hard to do normally, but even harder when you’ve been pushed away by the one person you thought you were going to spend eternity with.

* * *

_“Phew! What a day!” chuckles Jaskier. “I imagine you’re probably–”_

_Geralt isn’t in the mood for fun and games, so he swiftly turns on his so-called friend and growls, “Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?”_

_“Well, that’s not fair,” retorts Jaskier, but his face doesn’t tell the same story as his voice, a look of betrayal gracing it._

_“The Child Surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” he seethes, throwing his anger into the face of someone who doesn’t deserve it, into the face of a man who has stood by him through everything, day and night, asking for nothing more than his company._

_The bard’s voice has lost its youth, its lyrical edge. “Right. Uh, right, then. I’ll-I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” No teasing, no joy, no nothing._ No Jaskier. _“I’ll see you around, Geralt.”_

* * *

He picks up the axe and continues swinging at the not-yet-chopped wood, needing to let out all of the energy he has in him, all of the anger and hatred he feels towards himself. In his life, he has felt much regret, but what he did to Jaskier – that has haunted him the most, and he has found no way of escaping it. That scene replays in his head in his dreams, on quests, during every waking minute of his existence.

Life has been hard since they parted ways, to say the least. He has had difficulty with finding meaning in anything he does, and he knows exactly why, even if he doesn’t care to admit it. After spending so much time together, being apart has put his heart in a vice, killing him softly from the inside. He is made of fragments, caught in a crossfire and pulled apart by forces bigger than him, and there is not much he can do to change it.

He was made, mutated, his feelings supposedly taken from him, but there is no way he can believe those stories. Sometimes he believes he feels more than most, but he’s just incapable of putting it out in the open so others can see who he truly is. There is no one to translate what goes on inside his mind, and it is those around him that suffer the consequences.

From what he can remember, he hasn’t cried since he was much more than a babe, and to have seemingly lost that ability is one of his greatest weaknesses rather than strengths. He would do anything to become as human as they come, for a minute or two at least, just to see what it might be like to have nothing more to worry about than how he can make the most out of his life, and then maybe he could find it in him to be brave enough to admit things he wouldn’t admit as a Witcher.

* * *

He still hasn’t woken.

Days and nights have passed, and with the damage his leg sustained, only narrowly did he avoid an infection. He is fighting, a warrior inside him, staying alive by the skin of his teeth. Even Triss has had a hard time finding an elixir that might speed up his recovery process and giving Geralt the bad news is a particularly hard task.

“For a human,” starts Triss, “it is a miracle he seems so unchanged in appearance. And though it’s possible that being part-elf has helped him survive this long while still being youthful… there is not much more I can do to help.”

His fists clench and unclench. His eyes open and shut. His heart quickens and slows. “I should never have come here. I should have listened to Yenn and stayed away. Maybe then I wouldn’t be the reason he’s dying.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” She places a hand on his arm, drawing circles so as to comfort him. “That man has been a fighter for as long as I’ve known him. You cannot lose hope.”

“I lost _him,_ Triss,” admits Geralt, doing his best to open up like he promised himself he would. “I let him leave, our last conversation nothing more than me lashing out at him because of my own insecurities. I won’t be surprised if he can never forgive me.”

The mage knows the Witcher thinks of himself as a monster, whether he’ll admit it or not, and there is not much talking to a person like that. She can try and convince him that Jaskier will never hate him because his love is bigger than his anger, but it’s up to him whether he believes her or not, and no one else can change his mind besides himself.

“You think of yourself as someone no one could ever love, as someone unworthy of love, but the truth is you’re afraid; you’re afraid just like all those that have their hearts broken far too young,” says Triss, not backing down from the challenge Geralt proposes. “You are not alone in this life, no matter how much you think you are, and all you have to do open your eyes and look around. We all have trouble finding the words sometimes, but saying something is better than saying nothing at all.”

She says no more. He will have to come to the conclusion of her words himself, and she knows he’s capable of it. He’s smarter than he thinks he is, even if he had hidden it so far he’s forgotten where it lies. Despite his claims that he doesn’t understand how the human mind works, he knows it far better than he believes, having been human himself once. The man he was before he became a Witcher is still in him somewhere, and all he has to do is find him.

* * *

“You’re doing well. Better every day,” says Geralt, helping his friend with his balance as they walk around the house, holding onto each other. The bard is having to learn to walk all over again, and as frustrated as it might make him, he’s also determined to learn as quickly as possible so as to get rid of Geralt.

“I’d be doing better if you’d shut up with the so-called encouragements and let me just walk,” spits Jaskier, preferring to use his crutches rather than his ‘friend’ as help. Geralt lets go of his bard, keeping his distance, but staying close enough to catch him in case he falls, which he does straight away, and Geralt’s hands are on him once more. “I thought I told you to fuck off!”

His blood no longer sits calmly. “Well, you can fuck off too!” retorts the Witcher, pissed off at Jaskier’s attitude, no longer willing to deal with it. “I have tried to be patient with you these past weeks because I’ve put you through so much, but for once you could at least pretend you like me! I’m still here because I care about you, Jaskier, and I’m not leaving until I know you’re healthy.”

“Fine,” huffs Jaskier. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt helps him up and they continue walking in silence, making sure any atrophied muscles are put back into use. It’s been tense, the two of them living together while the bard recovers from his near-death experience, but they’ve managed to avoid any big fights, mainly by not speaking to each other. It’s a wonder they still have their voices.

Once inside, Jaskier heads to bed, tired out from the exercise he has to do to even function like he used to. It’s strange to him, to not be able to do anything for himself anymore, having to rely on the one person he doesn’t feel he can trust anymore. Still, he lets himself be tucked in by the Witcher, turning away from him and hiding his face and tears in his pillow, embarrassed by his emotions.

He is weak, unable to handle everything that Geralt’s visit has brought, and he does his best to cry only once he is alone, but he’s too caught up in everything to wait until he leaves. Perhaps if he hadn’t been cursed to be so touchy, he’d be better at hiding what ails him, but he just hasn’t been lucky enough.

“Talk to me. _Please_.”

“I can’t,” he croaks out, voice cracked completely. “Not without crying.”

Geralt turns Jaskier onto his other side, wanting to look the man in his eyes that glitter like ocean waves during the sunset. He wipes his cheeks dry, and keeps wiping them until the tears stop flowing, or, to be more precise, slow down. “I don’t care about tears, Jaskier. I care about you, and I hate to see you like this. I’m here to help you, no matter what form that might take.”

Is he ready to confide in the man who abandoned him? A man he thought might end up being more than a friend to him if destiny perhaps pushed things his way for once? Truth be told, he doesn’t know what choice he wants to make, and only once he truly looks into those golden orbs of Geralt’s does he give in to his heart instead of his head.

“I’m going to get better eventually. And you’re going to leave. And we’re never going to see each other again.”

The Witcher is frozen. Since the only thing that had been on his mind ever since he first arrived was making sure Jaskier would get better and become the person he used to be before he swung an axe into his leg, he didn’t even think about what might happen once he _did_ get better, fully functional without needing any extra help.

The idea of Geralt leaving has clearly been tormenting the bard all this time, and still he has managed to stay silent about the truth for so long, which is surprising considering his heart and soul is usually poured into his life as well as lyrics.

“Yes, I’m going to leave,” sighs Geralt, breaking the eye-contact. “But I am also going to come back, because you once asked me to come with you and live with you on the coast, and I’ve regretted not saying yes all these months, and do you want to know why?

“Because what please me, Jaskier, is spending my life with you.”

There is no time to breathe, not when Geralt pulls Jaskier into the most hunger-driven kiss he’s ever known, everything around him melting away. There is no pain in his leg as he wraps both of them around his hips, pushing pelvis to pelvis, friction the only thing that can save him now, ready to sin on his way down to Hell.

Rational thought is abandoned just as quickly as clothes are discarded, the two men caught in a power grab for dominance, and before either of them really know what’s happened, Jaskier is on top, pushing Geralt down onto the bed, telling him that he’s not in charge anymore, and he’s not going to be, not until they’re finished.

Open-mouthed kisses are peppered all along his body, the bard’s teeth making an appearance from time to time. He has no use for gentleness, lifting the Witcher’s thighs up so his fingers can get where they need to be, and all groans are swallowed by his lips, a smile cast across them. There’s no warning, not in the slightest, and Jaskier gleefully takes in the look of shock on Geralt’s face when he starts thrusting.

A rhythm is settled, their moans reaching incredible harmonies together, and anything they’ve ever known is forgotten, body more important than mind right now. Sweat sticks to skin like flies to fruit, a bond forming between them like nothing they’ve ever felt before, pulling them into something they know there’s no escape from.

“Fuck! Gods, yes! Yes!”

It is impossible to distinguish between their screams, for they’ve both been possessed by something that has made them lose the ability to say anything other than those three words, occasionally with a ‘shit’ thrown in here and there, both of them wanting, needing, begging for more. They’ve lost count of how many times they’ve come, that high so wonderful for them they never want to leave it, and they keep going until exhaustion takes over, until breathing itself becomes too hard to do.

Cooling down is the hardest part for them, everything in their heads messy and their eyes cloudy, but they manage it with some amount of grace, even if their eyes are closed so they can’t really see what they look like.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“I think my leg is bleeding.”

The Witcher is immediately broken out of his trance and put on high alert, getting rid of the sheets and checking for anything red and sticky. He finds nothing except a shit-eating grin on Jaskier’s face, and it’s safe to say Geralt isn’t exactly laughing at Jaskier mistaking come for blood. So, to show him just how funny he finds the situation, he licks it all off, moves his mouth away, and stands up, bare arse on view.

“You’re not going to just leave a man helpless like this, are you?” gapes Jaskier, appalled that Geralt would tease him like this.

The Witcher chuckles. “I suppose you’ll have to catch me if you want me to finish the job, won’t you, Bard?”

“I could…” ponders Jaskier. “But I could also finish the job myself. I’ve done it all these months while thinking of you, another time couldn’t hurt, could it?”

It’s games he wants to play, and it’s also games he’s good at, especially since Geralt doesn’t know when someone is being serious or not, and he knows he’s won when Geralt stops, pauses to think, and then starts walking back to the bed, intrigued by just how playful Jaskier seems to be feeling. His fingers creep up those naked legs, dancing almost.

“Oh, Jaskier… if only you knew what you do to me.”

Oh, but he does know. He knows all too well, which is why it’s easy to have so much fun with so little, and he wouldn’t trade that knowledge for anything in the world. He pulls the man back into bed, wanting more time with him before he leaves his hazy dreamworld for good and has to face reality. A little peace after weeks of bitter, _bitter_ pain is something they both deserve.

**Author's Note:**

> [my ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/erissapphic)


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